Silver
by Jubalii
Summary: They're getting older, but that doesn't mean they've changed.


"Whew!"

The door to the bedroom slammed open, bouncing against the solid oak of an armor stand. Clad head to toe in shining metal, long plumes floating behind him, the man clanked his way towards the closed door opposite the one he'd entered. Behind him, a tired woman let the heavy cloak fall from her shoulders and pool carelessly at the threshold.

"These Parades seem to get longer every year," he complained, removing his helmet and yanking back the damp cloth protecting his hair from the metal. "I thought I might bake alive on that horse."

"At least _you_ were able to sit down." The woman leaned against the chest of drawers, fighting with her long boots. "My back feels like it's going to fold in on itself." She released one foot, chunking the boot across the room. "Why do I continue to wear these stupid heels?" she asked herself aloud, shaking her head.

"I'm taking a shower," he announced, working on the straps that kept his armor snug against his body. "I think I've sweated my own body weight." The woman paused, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

"That's disgusting, Zacharias."

"'Tis true, though." She rolled her eyes, reaching up to undo the intricate hairstyle that took her hours to pull off. She hadn't minded when she was younger, but now she kept it for Parades only. It took too much time, and her arms seemed to be ready to quit halfway through. She carefully unraveled the braid, combing out the strands with her fingers to keep tangles from forming before reaching up to take off the elaborate hair cones.

"I'm thinking about growing a beard," echoed from the washroom. "All the other fathers have a beard."

"Huh." She shook out her hair, staring at her reflection. She was still beautiful, even with the faint lines starting to show around her eyes. She looked very much like the memories she had of her mother… only she'd made it to middle age.

"Even the bard has a beard. Bearded Bardly." Her eyes narrowed on something out of place… out of the ordinary. Peering closer, her eyes widened and she felt her heart skip a beat. "I don't know… what do you think?"

She stared. Doubted. Stared.

"Eve?" He appeared at the door, undressed except for his breeches and cloth under shoes. "Something wrong?"

"My… hair."

"Hmm?" He stepped across the room, bringing with him a slight odor of sweat now that the armor was gone. He looked first at her, and then at the mirror, trying to follow her eyes.

"Look." She reached for her temple, winding a curled strand around her fingers and yanking it out deftly by the root with a wince. She held it up between them, her eyes tracing the pale strand as it blew in his breath. "My hair, it's… silver." He looked from her to the hair, then back.

"Aye, well… mine's not far off," he admitted. She made to argue, but when she looked at him—truly looked, for the first time in so long—she saw that he was right. Around his eyebrows, his temples, the hair curling out from his nape, it was slowly dulling from that brilliant copper to a fainter, rosier hue that she knew, before long, would fade entirely to white. And the lines in his face were becoming more pronounced as well, along with a softened jaw line that came from lack of strenuous exercise.

"What do you expect? Our children are almost grown."

"But… we're not old, not yet." She swallowed, releasing the hair and letting it drift to the ground. They were quiet. "Well," she sighed, "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. I was bound to look like a grandmother at some point."

"You don't look old," he protested lightly, tugging at her curls. She pursed her lips and he scoffed. "Mrs. Eclaire looks like a grandmother—as she well should. _You_ look as young and comely as the day I first met you."

"Yeah, right." She turned back to the mirror, continuing to fuss with her hair while trying to ignore the urge to look and pluck more of the silvery strands slowly invading her normal, natural dark locks. He stepped behind her, hot against her back as one hand rested on her hip, the other gently brushing the hair from her neck. He stared over her shoulder at the mirror, content with watching while she unwound the other coil from beneath the hair cone and combed it out.

"The children aren't home," he prompted softly, when she was through. She paused, hand reaching for the brush, and huffed.

"They could come home at any moment."

"They won't. They're with Espella. They'll probably stop by the tavern on their way home, too." He began to place warm kisses against her shoulder, hand tracing patterns on her hip.

"I'm tired," she complained halfheartedly, not making any effort to untangle herself from his embrace.

"I'll do all the work." He pressed a kiss behind her ear. "You know I will." She smiled when he brushed over her stomach, fingers tickling, and turned her head against his neck.

"You stink of sweat."

"So do you."

"Liar." The sound of his chuckle resonated in her ear.

"Well, allow me to help, at the very least." He ran his hands up the uniform, all the way to her neck so that he could tug the knot out of her yellow ribbon. She didn't answer, removing her ceremonial weapon along with its golden braid and placing it on the chest of drawers. "Eve…."

She arched a brow before reaching behind her, pulling the uniform over her head. Her shoulders creaked, protesting the motion and reminding her that riding on a float wasn't as easy as it used to be. She mouthed a curse, hidden by the fabric, and with one final tug let out a sigh of relief. Compared to the restricting outer uniform, the white cotton tunic beneath was light and airy.

He stared and she blushed slightly; it always embarrassed her, how he acted as though it were his first time seeing her relatively unclothed whenever he looked at her. Without the stays built into the lining of the maroon fabric, the tunic _hid_ more of her curves. Still, he eyed her with a sense of subdued awe before reaching out. She stepped back into his arms and rested her forehead against his shoulder.

"I really am tired," she admitted.

"Then we don't have to do anything." His hands rubbed her neck, seeming to know exactly where she was the tensest without her having to say a word. She relaxed against him, moaning softly at the feeling. Even without the strict regimen of a knight, he still managed to keep most of the muscles and he felt hard and sturdy against her, only the slightest loss of tone suggesting his real age. She'd always thought that he looked the younger, despite him being the older of them both. But, despite having children she still had a figure some of the younger girls in town would die for. _Maybe I don't look that bad, either…._

She backed away, taking off the tunic as well and relishing the feeling of the cool air against her skin. He helped her, hands tugging the long, frilled sleeves off her arms before tossing it across the foot of the bed. He looked down at her appreciatively, eyeing her bra with a sly grin.

"Hmm." She took his hands off her, pressing them against his own chest. "Will you rub that spot on my back before you get in the shower?"

"Aye, lay down." He nodded to the bed, unperturbed by her last silent refusal, and waited until she was facedown before crawling on top of her. "Here?" he clarified, poking at a tender spot just above her hips. She nodded and spread her arms, twisting her head to one side before sinking into the mattress fully. "Get ready."

"I am." He gently prodded at the spasming muscles before kneading. She knew he was being careful, but it felt like she was a poor lump of dough and he was pummeling her into submission, the way he used to when he was just an apprentice, and not a shareholder, at Mrs. Eclaire's. She hissed when he hit a spot that went straight through her, nerves screaming.

"Too much?" he asked, stopping immediately. She shook her head.

"Keep going," she growled through gritted teeth. "It's got to be taken care of."

"I think you should go see a specialist," he said, massaging near her shoulders and giving her extensors a reprieve. It was an age old argument that they started, stopped, and started again. It had been running for the last five years, without any sign of a winner.

"When you go to one for your joints, I will."

"I _know_ what's wrong with my elbows. Years of sword practice."

"And I know what's wrong with my back," she retorted, fisting her hands in the quilt when he returned to her sore spot. "They're at Espella's right now." She let out a quick yelp when he pressed too hard. "Sword practice my ass," she grunted, leaning up on her arms to stretch her back. It cracked twice, and she held the position for as long as she could before falling back to the mattress. "You've got arthritis, old man."

"And _you've_ got a slipped disc, I'd wager."

"Shut up." She rolled over underneath him, draping an arm over his shoulder. "How dare you speak to your wife that way?"

"I'd speak that way to anyone that calls me an old man." He dipped his head, lips brushing. "Even if she's my wife."

"Hmph." He made to rise and she pulled him back, leg winding around his waist to hold him down. His brow furrowed and he watched her a moment, eyes soft. "What?"

"It's… astounding." He bent down again, forehead resting against hers even as he was careful not to throw his full weight onto her. "Even after twenty years, I still can't believe how beautiful you are."

"S-shut up," she repeated, cheeks burning. "Quit trying to butter me up."

"'Tis the truth." His hand ran along her jaw, thumb brushing over her skin. "You're incredible, love. You always were." She put her fingers over his, turning to press her lips to his palm.

"I love you." He grinned, the same boyish expression he wore the first day she said those same words, so many years ago.

"I love you more."

"Let's not start that," she groaned. "We're not sixteen." He kissed her fingers. "Besides, we both know that I always win."

"Only because my love can't be measured." He leaned up, looking down the length of her body. "Are you truly so very tired?"

"Well…." She was reaching for the waistband of his breeches when they both heard the door open.

"Mum! Dad?" A lighthearted voice called. A pause.

"MUM!? DAD?! ARE YOU HOME?" A second, even louder voice shouted, shaking the rafters.

"Told you," she preened, a little disappointed even if she _was_ right. He made a face as she raised her voice. "We're here!" He climbed off her, crossing his arms before shrugging with a soft laugh.

"That's the price we paid." There was a scramble below their heads, along with a fierce barking. She lay against the pillow, listening to the racket. She hadn't had a peaceful house in over fifteen years, but she was dreading the day—looming just over the horizon—that it would be quiet once more. "I'll go deal with them. You get dressed, or nap, or what you will." He counted the days. "It's my turn to make supper, anyway."

"Leftovers," she pointed out. "All you have to do is make a salad, and surely the rhinos downstairs are competent enough to achieve _that_." There was a shout, and then:

"Mum! MUM! She's got me in a headlock again!"

"Tattletale!"

" _Leggo,_ you're _choking_ —MUM!"

"You know, if you hold off on that shower…." She raised her eyebrows. "I might not be quite so tired."

"It's a date." He winked at her before turning to the door. "Alright!" He shouted, barreling through and thundering down the stairs. "Which one of you thinks I'd look good in a beard?!"

"Dad, eew!"

"Ugh, put on some clothes!"

"What? It's my house, isn't it? A man's got the right to be unclothed in his own kingdom."

"That's disgusting, Dad."

"Mum! Make Dad put on a shirt!"

"So that's two no's on the beard?"

She couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

 **Afterword** : Don't enjoy the good feelings for long…. :)c


End file.
